Tales from 221B
by owl-eats-waffles
Summary: At 221B, everyday life is anything but normal. A selection of lighthearted drabbles featuring various characters and various points of view.
1. Doctor Watson Observes

**Sherlock belongs to the BBC (and so we consent to pay our license fee), Moffat, Gatiss and co. Not to me. If anyone was thinking of paying me for this, then send your money in a brown envelope to the BBC, so they can buy Martin Freeman another fluffy jumper. **

**1. Doctor Watson Observes**

It wasn't that he was really that unobservant, John thought ruefully. He was, after all, a doctor, trained to notice illness before even his patient. His time in Afghanistan, too, had made him alert; there was nothing like the ever-present threat of death to make one notice the details. After all, it was on details that survival would so often depend. No, he was, compared to most of the population of London, a very observant man. So what was it about Sherlock that made him feel like he wouldn't be able to notice his own name if it had been tattooed onto his forehead?

Something to do with the eyes, he thought. The way they studied so briefly the object of the detective's enquiry, but saw things that he, with all the time in the world, never would. The way they changed so suddenly from penetrating and sharp to oddly absent as Sherlock vanished into his own mind, only to return moments later to the present with the answer he had sought, and normally several other answers as well.

Or maybe it was to do with the voice, John thought, that Sherlock used to explain his conclusions as if they were the most obvious things in the world. And the note of wondering disbelief that no one else had noticed what he had so clearly seen. It was the tone of voice, John mused, which marked the place when most people would roll their eyes; but oh no, eye-rolling was for lesser mortals, not the great Sherlock Holmes!

So it was with a jolt of surprise that John, surfacing from his internal monologue, was met with something other than the familiar feeling of inadequacy. Was he seeing things, or was there a sparkle in those perceptive blue eyes, a smile twitching on the corners of that mouth?

"You know, John, I really am very impressed! I mean, you missed the fact that the footprint on the windowsill was a fake, placed before the time of death as a decoy (meaning she really was alone in the room when she died), but noticing the powder on the far side of the ventilation shaft was surprisingly well done!"

John grinned at his friend. "Well, there we are then. Maybe I'm not entirely useless after all…"

"When did I ever say you were useless?"

"Oh, piss off, Sherlock!" John joked, as the sound of the two friends laughing floated out of the open window and into the busy London street below.

**A/N: This is my forst foray into the world of Sherlock, and I'd like to put in a thankyou to the BBC Sherlock team for being epic, to all the fanfiction Sherlock writers (especially twilightmask, Aktress, queenoftheoutlands and LittlePippin76) for inspiration, and to Crave Kashmir for the excellent writer's block advice! If you like it, please review. If you don't, please review anyway. ConCrit always appreciated!**

**Owl**


	2. Flatmate

**A/N: 59 visits in 3 days for chapter 1- I can't believe it! So I'm publishing chapter 2 a little earlier than I'd planned. Please review, as it's very good for the motivation! As always, I don't own it, but I'm sure the BBC wouldn't mind money to buy Benedict a new scarf. Oh and apologies for blatant sillyness in the kitten name department... I just couldn't resist, and I've always thought it would be an excellent name for a cat! **

**2. Flatmate**

"Sherlock, really? You can barely look after yourself! Go on, get your coat and take it back to Lestrade."

"But John, it's a kitten**. **You can't just abandon a kitten! It's… it's _wrong!_"

John rolled his eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. Why on earth Lestrade had had to mention that the kitten which had belonged to the victim of Sherlock's last case was still available for re-homing John honestly didn't know. And to mention it to Mrs Hudson, of all people! Normally John was very fond of his landlady, but then normally she didn't arrive at the flat holding some very large green eyes attached to a very small black kitten, announcing that it was a present for Sherlock. John had gaped at her, overcome by the thought of what experiment might greet him as he entered the kitchen in search of a cup of tea the next morning, and so barely heard her explanation of, "It'll do you good, Sherlock dear, to have something to look after."

By the time he had regained the power of speech, Mrs Hudson was bustling out of the flat and Sherlock was inspecting the kitten.

"Come on Sherlock, you're not seriously considering keeping it, are you?"

"Of course. I like cats."

"Sherlock! She hasn't brought you this kitten so you can experiment on it!"

"John, is that what you really think of me?" asked Sherlock, sounding somewhat offended. "And anyway, 'it' is a 'he,' and 'he' has a name."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"Really, John, sarcasm is the lowest form of humour. How about Mycroft?"

John spluttered. "You want to name the kitten _after your brother?_"

"No, you're quite right, John. The poor thing deserves better than that. What do you think to Benedict?"

"Benedict?" asked John, weakly. "Why can't it have a normal name, like Tiddles?"

"Tiddles? Come on John, use your imagination!"

"And _I've _still not said we're keeping it..!"

The argument was not resolved for some time. John had no problem with cats, not really; it was just the idea of Sherlock in ownership of one that worried him. So, once again, 221B Baker Street was the scene of an event that few who had known John during his time as an army doctor would ever forget: Captain John Watson putting his foot down.

Except the kitten seemed to have other ideas. By the time John was asking, in his best 'I-am-your-doctor-so-if-you-knew-what-was-good-for-you-you'd-listen-to-me' voice, how exactly Sherlock was going to stop 'Benedict' trying to eat all of the experiments, particularly the ones where, for whatever reason, the result ended up looking like cat food, the kitten was sat on the detective's shoulder, purring contentedly as Sherlock tickled him under the chin.

"Alright, fine," John sighed, knowing that once Sherlock had set his mind on keeping the kitten he had been highly unlikely to win the argument anyway. "But you're the one who'll be looking after him."

Sherlock, too busy searching the cupboards for tins of tuna, did not reply.

When John returned home from work that evening, he was met by the sight of Sherlock slouched in his favourite armchair playing the violin. This in itself was nothing unusual, but the audience the detective had certainly was. As Sherlock brought the piece to an end, the little cat seemed to purr in the feline version of applause, and then peeled itself away from the detective's feet to say hello to John.

"Alright," he conceded quietly. "Maybe having another flatmate isn't so bad after all…"


	3. Doctor Watson's Birthday Party

_A/N: Before we start, I want to give a bit of a shout out to Ealcynn, who'se wonderful Ten Days was inspiring (and very moving) and to the wonderful Morgan Stuart, for helping me with the writing of LestradeoftheYard. Read their stuff. It's very good! A huge thankyou to all my wonderful reviewers and favourite-ers: you bring a big smile to my face and make all of the editing seem worthwhile. Hope you enjoy this (ever so slightly longer) story..._

_I don't own Sherlock. However, Benedict Cumberbatch does own aviator specks, which I thought you might like to know... _

**3. Doctor Watson's Birthday Party**

"_One can't give the raspberry to a client. I mean, you didn't find Sherlock Holmes refusing to see clients just because he had been out late the night before at Doctor Watson's birthday party."_

_-Bertie Wooster, P.J. Wodehouse's 'Right Ho, Jeeves'_

It had only been planned as a quiet night out; a visit to the pub with a few friends to celebrate his 40th birthday. So John was somewhat surprised when he, Sherlock and Lestrade were met by what seemed to be half of both New Scotland Yard and St. Bart's when they walked through the doors. Word, it appeared, had got around.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the welcome, he accepted with a laugh the chorus of 'Happy Birthday' and the improbably candle-bedecked cake and then said the only thing that seemed to fit the circumstances: "I bloody well hope you're not expecting me to buy you all a drink!"

An incongruous figure stepped out of the crowd. "Actually, I took the liberty of buying them a round on your behalf."

John thanked the guest in a somewhat startled tone and, turning towards his flatmate, asked, "Does he take that umbrella _everywhere_?"

Sherlock laughed, and muttered conspiratorially, "What you don't know is that he has a variety of weapons hidden in it. It's funny; Mycroft always _did _seem to like the 'Bond' films…"

John soon found himself pressed in on all sides by people wishing him "Happy birthday." Lestrade presented him with a present from the Met, "for taming our favourite consulting detective," causing Sherlock to scowl, until he was distracted by having yet another drink pressed on him, this time by a rather dressed- up Molly Hooper.

At some point during the evening the doors burst open and what seemed like everyone John had ever known in his time with the Army came streaming into the pub, much to the delight or the landlord. After this, the doctor's memory became a little hazy…

... ... ...

John was woken the next morning by the sun slanting through the curtains and a series of disjointed memories from the night before. Slow dancing with Sarah… Mycroft singing karaoke with Sally Donovan… Molly _finally _plucking up courage to ask Sherlock to dance… Sherlock attempting to dance…

After a few minutes of happy reminiscing (ending with a rather blurred recollection of Sherlock and himself walking home, each with their arms round the other's shoulders, singing a selection of rock 'n roll songs from the '50s) John dragged himself out of bed to search for a cup of coffee, grateful that his time at medical school had left him with a higher than average tolerance for alcohol. Ten minutes and a quick cup of coffee later, he went to search for his flatmate.

Sherlock, it transpired, was lying in his darkened bedroom, trying very hard not to move his aching head. John smiled as he transferred some of the books and papers that littered the bedside table onto the floor in order to deposit his friend's coffee on a clear space, before turning and walking out of the room; something, perhaps the years of medical experience, told him that Sherlock would be in no mood to discuss the meaning of life.

... ... ...

John was putting the finishing touches to his latest blog entry when Lestrade entered the room. Closing the laptop, the doctor smiled his welcome.

"Greg, how are you? And thanks again for organising last night. It was… well, I've not been so drunk for years!"

"I'm alright thanks; the headache's cleared," the policeman grinned. "And it was my pleasure. I thought you ought to know how many friends you've made since you started keeping Sherlock out of trouble. Out of interest, where is 'the Lord of the Dance?'"

John rolled his eyes. "In his room. I looked in about an hour ago and he was still sleeping off the effects. Still, don't count on him being unconscious; I dread to think what he'd do if he heard you call him that!"

Greg waved away the comment in a way which clearly said 'oh, I've called him worse and lived to tell the tale,' and then cleared his throat.

"The thing is, John, that something's turned up. Something he'll be interested in."

"Hang on, Greg," John interrupted. "I thought you were supposed to be taking the day off."

"So did I," Lestrade replied, ruefully running his hand through his greying hair. "Apparently, however, the criminal fraternity of London have no respect for the concept of pre-booked leave."

John nodded in commiseration, privately wondering how long it would be before he would end up confronting his friend's boss about the twin evils of stress and overwork. "So, what is it then?"

"A triple murder, or so we presume, seeing as there's no visible cause of death. A locked room and piece of paper with coded writing on it found lying on the floor, complete with a harmonica and a copy of a Chopin waltz."

"And I wondered why he'd be interested…" John muttered, wryly.

"Well, quite. I had no idea it was nearly his birthday…"

John smiled, wondering how long it took most people to see this Greg Lestrade; fiercely loyal, with an ironic sense of humour and a quiet chuckle always bubbling under the surface, ready to escape. Behind the 'stressed policeman' exterior he was quite easily the kindest man John knew, and the doctor was certain that he had done more for Sherlock's sanity than anyone else.

"I tell you what, I'll make you a cup of tea and then see if 'his Lordship' is ready to receive visitors."

He wasn't. The opening of the door was enough to send a pillow flying towards the doctor, although it missed by several metres and hit the wall with a muffled thump. John took one look at the occupant of the bed, muttered "oh dear" to himself, and decided that a direct approach would probably be for the best.

"Sherlock," he cried, tugging open the curtains. "Greg's here."

"Lestrade?" The voice was hoarse and muffled by a duvet and several blankets. "Urgh, tell him to go away."

"Actually, Sherlock, he's got you a case." No response. "You know, a _case_. You go to the crime scene, spin round, show off, notice things, insult Anderson, work out the criminal's identity, insult Anderson again, fail to explain _anything_ and then become incredibly smug when people thank you. Oh, and you normally find an excuse to experiment on one of Molly's charges somewhere in the middle as well. You know, one of _those_ cases."

The pile of blankets groaned in a slightly more animated (or maybe offended) way and then wriggled, before Sherlock emerged, his face partially obscured by curls even messier than usual.

"Alright, alright! I'm listening. What've we got?"

By the time John had passed on all of the details he knew, the fire was back in Sherlock's eyes.

"Brilliant! Just Brilliant! Tell Greg he's bloody marvellous. Then, give me ten minutes, a large glass of water and some paracetamol, and then I'll be down."

Precisely ten minutes later John was just finishing his cup of tea when Sherlock bounded into the room, looking for all the world like he's just had the best night's sleep of his life.

"How's the headache?" Lestrade asked kindly.

"Deleted," the young detective grinned, moving over to the window. "I'd been beginning to have serious doubts about the criminals of London, but- Hang on," he trailed off into silence as a look of confusion drifted across his face. "There are people leaving work. Shop staff, accountants, secretaries, even some investment bankers over at that street corner. Why have they all left work? Why now? I mean, that's far too many people for it to be a coincidence. Something must have happened…"

"Sherlock, you do know it's 5 o'clock, don't you?" John asked, slowly.

Sherlock looked disbelieving. "No, it can't be." He glanced at his watch and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Well, shall I get us a taxi?" Greg asked, smiling at the look on his friends' faces.


	4. Dancing Queen

_Thankyou to favouriters and reviewers. You make me smile!_

_This story follows, indirectly, from Doctor Watson's Birthday Party. It can be construed as Sherlock/Molly if you look at it through a magnifying glass with that purpose, but it was intended as my take on their rather odd friendship. I hope you like it! _

_I don't own Sherlock. I don't own the characters. I do, however, own several wooly jumpers. And some scarves. _

**4. Dancing Queen**

"Molly, how are you?"

Molly Hooper looked up from her microscope, pipette in hand, and smiled at the detective who had just burst into her lab.

"Hello, Sherlock. You sound cheerful today."

"Well, I've got a new-"

'_Please not girlfriend, please not girlfriend-'_

"-case." He beamed at her.

"Ah, I thought it might be something like that," she smiled. "I'm afraid we've not got many in at the moment, so if you need anything specific you might have to wait a bit."

Sherlock waved this away, unconcerned. "Actually, I'm not here for your 'patients'. I wondered if you could do me a favour."

"What?" she asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Well, it's this case, you see," he replied in his most charming voice. "It's a high society blackmail, and it's going to involve an unavoidable masked ball, so-"

Molly interrupted him. "Sherlock, no! I promised myself, after Ji- after Moriarty, that I wasn't going to let anyone else use me to get close to someone. So that means no! I won't go with you to this ball as your wife. Or your girlfriend. Or your bloody fiancé."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she didn't let him.

"And I'm certainly not going to pretend to be your mistress! Got that?"

Molly realised with a jolt that, during her tirade, she had stood up and moved to within about a foot of the detective, and stepped backwards hurriedly, blushing.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was looking at the liquid which had splashed from the pipette onto his jacket with mild interest. "Should I be concerned?" he asked, smiling apologetically.

"No, it's just water. Hang on, I'll get you a cloth… Actually, no, I'm still angry. Find one yourself!"

Molly retreated back to her workspace and made a show of turning her back to the detective, who brushed the beads of water from his suit and, shaking his head slightly, stepped towards her.

"Actually, that wasn't the favour I had in mind," he murmured conspiratorially.

She whirled round, her blush deepening furiously.

"What I was _going_ to say," he continued, "is that John thinks that dance classes might come in handy- he muttered something about his birthday, although I don't know what he meant. Now obviously I can't go to a dance class on my own, so I wondered if you might be able to help out. Would you like to join me?"

Molly looked up into his smiling face and thought 'why not?' After all, what harm could some ballroom dancing classes do? Other than causing uncontrollable giggling and potentially fatal stuttering, of course…

"I'd love to!"

"Excellent! I knew John would be wrong."

"What about?" asked Molly, her curiosity ignited.

"He seemed to think you might not agree to come. Said something about irreparable trauma from his party- goodness knows what he meant."

"I have absolutely no idea," Molly lied, laughing.


	5. Collegue

_A/N: Well, people seemed to like Benedict, so I thought it was only fair he made another appearance, even if only a short one this time- sorry. Thankyou to you kind reviewer-y people (__expecially britewing, for my first ever prompt, and DetectiveConanFan13 for the offer of another one- it's all very exciting)! I don't own Sherlock. And, BBC, in the unlikely event that you're reading this, will you please buy Rupert Graves a hat or something- it's not fair the others all have a signature accessory and he doesn't..._

**5. Colleague**

Greg Lestrade marched up to Sherlock with a Look on his face that would have sent most of Scotland Yard running for cover.

"Sherlock," he exclaimed, exasperatedly. "This is getting ridiculous! I'm used to most of the strange things you do. I even accept your refusal to wear the protective forensic suits, despite the contamination risk. But how the hell do you expect me to explain to Anderson that you have brought a _cat_ to his crime scene?"

"Well, John couldn't come, and I needed something to talk at," replied the younger man with what Lestrade might have described, had it not been Sherlock Holmes, as a pout.

The DI raised an eyebrow. Slowly.

"And anyway," Sherlock added petulantly, "'the cat' has a name. He's called Benedict."

"Benedict? _Really_?" Greg sighed. "Oh, never mind, what's the use? At least you didn't bring the skull along this time. No, don't tell me, it's got a name too. What else but Yorick?"

Lestrade stalked off, but his muttering was interrupted by the sound of his phone. Wondering wth some irritation why these people had no respect for the time of policemen, he opened the text.

'_How's the murder? Sorry I couldn't make it, asked SH to pass on apologies but bet he hasn't. Mycroft's number is attached if you need it. Recommend speed dial!_

_JW"_

Lestrade grinned to himself and saved the number, making a mental note to buy John a drink the next time they met at the pub. He had a feeling that his new contact would be very useful indeed.


	6. The Skull

_A/N: Well, hello again! Thankyou all reviewers and favouriters/alerters for your reviewing and favouriting/alerting- you make me very happy! This chapter is based on a prompt from britewing (thankyou!), and so I'll take the oppurtunity to say that if anyone does have any more requests, please let me know. I hope you enjoy!_

_I do not own Sherlock or any other characters. The BBC does. I'm not sure if I even own this story- it seemed to have a bit of a mind of it's own! Enjoy!_

**6. The Skull**

Doctor John H. Watson closed his eyes with a longsuffering sigh. It was four o'clock on a greying Sunday afternoon; a time he had once heard described as the "deep, dark teatime of the soul." John wasn't sure who it was who had said this, but, whoever they were, he couldn't help agreeing with them. Another flurry of muttering met his ears and he wearily opened his eyes to peer at his flatmate. This, he decided, was quite enough.

"Sherlock," John exclaimed, causing the detective in question to jump slightly. "For God's sake, this is getting ridiculous! I can cope with the silence or the insufferable smugness, but I can't help finding it a little bit wearing that you've spent the past five hours completely ignoring me in favour of a one sided conversation with that bloody skull!"

Sherlock didn't deign to reply. Instead, he turned to look at the skull, smiled at it fondly and moved it on to the coffee table.

John shook his head slowly, stood up with a tired groan and went to make himself another cup of tea while the detective pretended not to notice the way the doctor neglected to offer him one. Unfortunately, this pretence seemed to take up far too much of the young man's precious mental capacity, and that, combined with his horror at the prospect of losing an argument, resulted in the silence being short lived.

"Well, at least the Skull doesn't question every little thing I do," Sherlock called, aggrieved.

John ignored him, so Sherlock, with a snort of disgust, seized the skull and stormed out of the room, leaving the door to slam shut behind him. John listened to the footsteps tracing the well worn path across the hall and into Sherlock's bedroom, before sitting down to enjoy his cup of tea.

An ominous crash brought him to his feet. A few moments later, it was followed by a small voice calling "John." Setting his tea to one side and picking up a fire poker, the doctor cautiously went to investigate- after all, with Sherlock, one could never be too sure…

John opened the door to find his flatmate crouched upon the floor, surrounded by lots of shards of something very white and very broken. On hearing his entrance, Sherlock lifted up his head to reveal the sort of eyes one might expect to see on a puppy which had just been kicked.

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"I broke my skull," the detective replied, lower lip quivering.

John took pity on him. "Right," he said calmly. "You pick up the pieces and I'll get the superglue."

"Will that work?"

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor."

Sherlock gave a reluctant smile and set about removing the shards of cranium from Mrs Hudson's carpet.


	7. Sunburn

_A/N: Hello readers. Thanks again for all of your kind words and favouriting etc, and especially to all you lovely people who have left me prompts. I'm working on them, but Life is all getting a bit busy at the moment, so there may be a bit of a delay... I'm writing as fast as I can here, people! This is inspired by 'Sic Fic' by LittlePippin76 (thanks!) and also a spoof Sherlock suncream poster I came across on t'internet. I can't find it again to credit it, so if it was you, I'm very sorry, and thankyou! I hope you enjoy!_

_As usual, I don't own them. All credit to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss. Except for the ludicrous analogies- they're MINE! _

**7. Sunburn**

It was a rare occasion when Sherlock Holmes was up and about before his flatmate, excluding, of course, the times when the detective never got to sleep in the first place. So when John sloped into the kitchen, stifling a yawn, on that particular Sunday morning, his first surprise was to find a rather rumpled looking consulting detective adorning the worktop and watching the toaster with an air of great expectation. That, however, was nothing compared to the second surprise.

The moment that Sherlock turned to face him, John underwent a brief but fierce internal struggle between the urge to giggle and the need to keep Sherlock in a good mood until at least 11.30 am. For, instead of the usual alabaster skin, there was a definite pink hue to the detective's complexion. Normally, John would be amongst the first to admit he didn't share his friend's capacity for extreme logic, but even he could deduce that, a) the peeling, reddened skin on the detective's nose indicated very recent sunburn, and b) the very recent sunburn would not make Sherlock a happy bunny. John shook his head, smiling.

"What?" his flatmate shot back immediately, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Sherlock, I did tell you to put sun cream on when we went to chase those burglars around what felt like half of Kent yesterday."

The detective looked petulant.

"Oh, come on, there's no point denying it. The skin's practically falling off your nose in sheets."

"Really?" asked Sherlock in what could only be described as panic. "God, I didn't realise it was that bad!" And without another word he left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Unfazed, John helped himself to the toast which had somehow synchronised its escape from the toaster with Sherlock's exit, and sat down to await his flatmate's return.

After 20 minutes, he went to investigate.

The detective was quickly located as being in his bedroom, and a quiet tap on the door was all that was needed to produce a response.

"Go away. I'm asleep."

John made a quick executive decision to ignore this- something told him it _might_ just be a lie- and opened the door. Sherlock, it became apparent, way lying in bed with the curtains fully drawn, as if in an attempt to stop any more of that dangerous sunlight damaging his skin. The doctor cleared a space on the desk and perched on it.

"Come on, Sherlock. What's wrong?"

"I can't work like this," the detective moaned. "No one will ever take me seriously with a face like a… like a… like an embarrassed tomato!"

John tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

"Sherlock, you think _this _is bad sunburn? You should have seen me that first week in Afghanistan. In fact, there's probably a photo somewhere…"

There was a pause.

"Did you look worse than an embarrassed tomato?" came the eventual reply, in a small voice.

"Much, much worse. The favourite analogy of my comrades was 'like a beetroot who'd spent all day marinating in red wine mixed with food colouring before developing heatstroke."

"Well, I suppose that's reassuring," Sherlock smiled. "And quite a simile. You should probably write it down to use in one of your stories…"

"Hmm, oddly enough I can't think of too many of your cases it would be applicable to…" John mused. "I tell you what, though. I could be wrong, but I think there might be half a bottle of Army-issue after-sun at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Would that help?"

Sherlock grinned at him and leapt out of bed, with a cry of, "Give me half an hour!"

Sometimes, John couldn't quite believe how vain his friend actually was.


End file.
